A Study In Pink
by Sh3zza
Summary: Re-telling of the loved TV show from the characters perspectives plus some information that could be filled in when characters aren't on screen eg. What happened when Sherlock 'left' with John and how he met Mary. More info in my A/N inside.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock the TV series of Sherlock the books. These characters are fictional creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Moffat and Gatiss.

 **Word Count:** 3, 809 (not including A/N)

 **Spoilers:** First episode of the TV series Sherlock…der ;P

* * *

 _ **John's Perspective**_

 _The firing of guns fills my head. I see men in khaki uniforms, blending in with the earth and vegetation around them. A grenade blows up somewhere nearby. I see two soldiers, to my right and left, their faces sweaty and smeared with dirt. Their mouths are moving, but I can't hear what they're saying. They're pointing over a mound of dirt that is currently protecting us from the bullets zipping past our heads from the other side. I try to figure out what they're saying, to understand what the plan of attack is, but my voice is unheard. I try to grab their attention, I'm shouting at them asking them 'What the Hell is going on'. My mouth is moving and I can feel the familiar burn in my throat when I shout, but no one can hear me. My ears fill with a ringing sound. Screaming echoes all around me.  
The two soldiers seem to have reached an agreement of some sort and are suddenly jumping up and running towards the enemy lines, firing like mad men. I watch in distress as they leave me. I stand up to go after them, but a force of some sort knocks me back. A burning hot sensation like fire spreads through my left shoulder. The pain is unbearable. I fall to the ground, eyes clenched tight. _

" _John!" One of the soldiers cry out. I want to reply, tell them it's ok, I'm ok but their voice sounds distant, even though I can sense and know they are close. I open my eyes, trying to signal the person calling out my name. My vision is doubled, and my head hurts when I open my eyes. I try to see the person calling out my name, but all I see are the glassy, cold eyes of a fallen soldier, lying in the grass next to me. I black out._

" _John!" his shouts fading in the distance_

 _Suddenly I'm moving. I see soldiers firing over an old cement wall. One soldier is in front of me, trying to get me to safety, two more behind me, occasionally helping me when I seem to lose balance._

" _John..."_

 _BANG!_

 _The soldier falls in front of me, he's been shot…_

" _JOHN!"_

I wake up with a start, sitting straight up. Sweat is dripping from every pore of my body, my breath short and rapid, like I'd just ran a marathon. My heart feels like it about to burst out of my chest. I look around my surrounding in a daze, looking for any signs of danger. My vision is slightly blurry making it hard to focus. I blink a couple of times, trying to get my eyes to recognise something, anything. My vision locks on an old white kitchen for split second. That's all I need. I'm in my flat. It was just a nightmare. I fall back onto my bed in heavy relief.

The relief vanishes a split second later as I recall my horrendous dream. I was in Afghanistan. I'd been shot. One of my friends had died to protect me, been shot right in front of me. He was trying to get me to a medic to fix up my bloody shoulder. I start choking. My throat feels constricted and I can feel my eyes getting wet with tears. I sob a couple of times, trying to hold back the flood of tears that are threatening to take over.

 _Breathe_ I tell myself, _Breathe_

I take big gulps of air, trying to force the lump in my throat back down. I finally manage to regain control of my emotions, and lay there feeling sorry for myself. This isn't the first time that I've had a flashback of the war while I've been sleeping; there have been many, MANY others. I breathe out slowly and lie there, staring at the ceiling. I haven't had a good night's sleep in ages. I don't know how long I stay there, but, deciding that there's no way I can go back to sleep now, I get up.

I start to make my bed, (old army habit, but a good one) and I sit on the end of it, contemplating. I wasn't particularly thinking of any one specific thing, just kinda zoning out. I look over at my walking stick resting against my desk, and a wave of memories rush back at me, but this time I'm prepared. I sense slight tears coming so I tilt my head towards the ceiling, blink a couple of times, and I'm fine again.

'That's it' I tell myself 'You need to go and see your psychotherapist'

I hate going to the psychotherapist, always wanting to know everything you're doing, and knowing all your thoughts and feelings, it feels like they're interrogating you. But, my sleep was getting interrupted more and more these days, and, truthfully, the psychotherapist did help a little. Not enough to last long, but just enough to not want to live.

I sit up with a heavy heart and make my way to the kitchen, picking up my walking stick and old striped dressing gown on the way, tying it around my cold body. Damn this London weather. That was one of the only things I missed about Afghanistan, the warm weather. London was just so damn cold. I put the kettle on, grabbing my only mug from the bare cupboards. It's not like I couldn't afford to buy more mugs or anything, I just didn't see the point. I lived alone, and nobody ever came over to my little apartment, not that there would be anyone I know in London that would come over anyway. The kettle starts boiling and I pick it up, pouring it into the cup, adding a tea bag. I breathe the heavenly smell in, waking me up as the scent hits my brain. I put the kettle back down, grabbing my mug and an apple from the fruit basket as I go back towards the desk back in my room. My apartment's small, but I like it like that. It's cosy and can be cleaned easily.

I sit down in my chair and open my draw, pulling out my laptop. I open it up, the screen still open on my blog from last time. I stare at the blank text box, the cursor blinking at me, as if challenging me to write something. I wrack my brain for something, ANYTHING to write, but it draws blank….again. I sigh in defeat and close my laptop lid again, preparing for the day ahead.

* * *

I lean back in the brown leather chair in the "interrogation room" as I call it, trying to seem as relaxed as possible, even though that's the opposite of what I'm feeling. My psychotherapist sits on the edge of her chair opposite me, clipboard and pen in her lap.

"How's your blog going?" she asked

I contemplate telling her the truth, but quickly change my answer when I realise that she'll probably rant at me, and I'm NOT it the mood for that today. "Yeah, good..." I lie, clearing my throat "Very good"

"You haven't written a word have you?" she replies, jotting down some information on her clipboard after giving me a disappointing glance

"You just wrote still has trust issues" I stated, looking at the red scribble.

She looks down at her clipboard, as if in disbelief even though I _just_ told her exactly what she had written. "And you read my writing upside down" she declares, giving me an annoyed look. But her expression quickly changes into a smile, as if she understands exactly what's going through my mind. "You see what I mean?"

I give her a quick half smile and then quickly look down unconsciously twiddling my fingers, trying to make the image of her 'knowing smile' disappear from my mind. I knew coming here was a bad idea. Why do I always talk myself into stupid situations? Seeing I'm not going to reply to her she puts down her pen and looks me dead in the eye.

"John, you're a soldier. It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life."

I swallow thickly. Yep, shouldn't have come here, this was a waste of my time.

"And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you"

I stare blankly at her for a while, careful not to show any emotion. I needed to end this meeting; I was feeling oddly claustrophobic in the large room. I needed air, but I know she wouldn't let me leave until I had told her why I hadn't written anything in my blog. Thinking fast I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Nothing happens to me"

* * *

Instead of taking a cab home like I usually do, I felt drawn to take a walk home through the park. It had been a rough week, and this morning just made it worse. I hadn't eaten well lately, (mostly because I spent my entire army pension on my flat) and it was starting to get to me. I was used to eating rations, when I was in Afghanistan, but at least there my mind was distracted from feeling hungry, with all the chaos and people walking into the infirmary with gun wounds or a leg missing. In London, I just went in and out of day to day life, paying bills, doing the shopping etc. Mind you, there wasn't anywhere else that I'd rather be living. There were lots of people out enjoying the London weather while it lasted, people reading books, couples having picnics; it was a rather nice sight to be honest. I breathed in the London air, deep in thought about what I could possibly write in my blog. I could just make up stuff…ha, who am I kidding I'd never be able to pull that off, she'd see right through it. Well… I could-

"John Watson!"

I was pulled out of my thoughts. Had someone just said my name? I turn around and see a short plump man in a tan trench coat and a rather flamboyant tie of red, yellow and dark green. He looks up at me in disbelief through his brown oval glasses and smiles at me amiably. I recognise this man's face and my mind works a million miles a minute trying to figure out who this eccentric man was.

"Stamford" he says, gesturing to himself "Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together"

Ah, right it was Stamford! I briefly remember him being in one of my classes when I studied there.

"Yes! Sorry, yes Mike. Hello, hi" offering my hand, which he shakes warmly

"Yeah I know, I got fat" he witticisms, obviously acknowledging my bewilderment when I turned around and saw him

"No,no" I say politely

He huffed, as if not believing me, but accepted the compliment.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" he enquired in a joking matter

I give him a look. Why do you think I'm back here? I try to get him to figure it out, make the connection to save him embarrassment. I make a small gesture with my eyes, but give up shortly after. He's not going to get it, might as well just tell him the blunt truth.

"I got shot" I reply, giving him a small, obviously forced smile

Mike seemed taken aback, and blinked a couple of times, as if not sure whether I was lying or not, but then came to the conclusion that I obviously wasn't and for the first time I had seen him that day, his smile dropped.

"Oh my gosh John, I'm so sorry! I had no idea" he spluttered

I just gave him the same tight lipped smile, "It's ok," I replied, lying through my teeth

"Oh John, let me make it up to you? Let me buy you a coffee ok? I know this nice little café down near the end of the park, called Criterion. They do nice lunches as well, if you wanted." He seemed to be struggling for words "But of course if you don't want to we don't have to I mean-"

I put up a hand to silence him, "Coffee sounds great right at the moment. Please, lead the way"

* * *

 _ **Lestrade's Perspective**_

Ugh! Another damn suicide case, this is ridiculous! The camera flashes from the media were not helping my attitude at all. I had had close to nothing sleep all week, trying to figure out the links between the suicides, and this press conference was NOT what I needed at the moment. Donovan is talking about the latest suicide victim, but I've zoned out, trying to gather myself for the bombardment of questions I'm going to get when she stops speaking. I close my eyes and turn it away from the camera flashes, half because of the grief and worry of yet ANOTHER suicide and half because of the white flashes that filled my head every 3 seconds. After gaining my thoughts, and trying to get rid of a headache I had acquired just this morning, I opened my eyes again and tuned into what Donovan was saying.

"Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffery Patterson and James Phillimore."

 _Sigh_ I really want a cup of coffee at the moment, or sleep, sleep sounds good.

"In the light of this," Donovan continued "these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now"

Right 'showtime'. Ugh, could really use that coffee. People start mumbling and can't hear them all when they talk at once. A young man with long brown hair near the middle puts up his hand

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" he questions

"Well they all took the same poison." I reply, wracking my brain for the other evidence we had assimilated "Umm, they were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indications-"

"But you can't have serial suicides" the man (more like a _boy_ to be honest) interrupts

"Well apparently you can" I retort, slightly pissed that he interrupted me

"These three people, there's nothing that links them?" a bald dark skinned man in the front row asks

"There's no links we've found _yet_ , but we're looking for it, there has to be one" I respond

All of a sudden the room fills with the 'dings' of message notifications from people's phones. Everyone gets theirs out, including myself.

'Wrong'

What on Ear- oh wait a minute, it's the goddam bloody 'consulting detective'. Jesus Christ, why can't he stick out of police business for a bit? Or at least not make a fool of the police department. Donovan tried to get the situation back under control.

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them"

"It just says 'wrong'" The man with the long hair states

"Yeah, well just ignore that" she responds

Ah, good job Sherlock bloody Holmes, making Scotland Yard looking like idiots _again_.

"If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade," she continues "I'm going to bring this session to an end."

"If they're suicides what are you investigating?" Baldy queries

"As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. Umm, it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating."

Mobile notifications fill the room once more.

'Wrong'

"Say's 'wrong' again" someone says

I look at Donovan in distress, damn Sherlock! She gets the hint

"One more question" she declares

A woman with red hair and thin black rimmed glasses asks "Is there any chance that these are murders? And if they are is this the work of a serial killer?"

I nearly groan at her inanity. I'm so over this meeting.

"I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The umm, the poison was _clearly_ self-administrated."

"Yes, but if they _are_ murders" Redhead check continues, "How do people keep themselves safe?"

This reporter was really starting to tick me off.

"Well, don't commit suicide" I riposte

She looks at me as if I'm stupid.

"Daily Mail" Donovan whispers under her breath

Right, time to make up some crap that sounds professional.

"Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do, is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be"

'Beep' 'Ding' 'Buda-bloop' sounds all fill the room for a THIRD time. I get a different message this time, slightly delayed than the rest.

'You know where to find me –SH'

I sigh, and place the phone in my jacket pocket, making a mental note to talk to Sherlock about this later.

"Thank you" I say to the crowd, picking up the folders on my desk and taking my leave, Donovan right behind me.

We head back to my office, my façade slipping as I opened the door into the main office area with slight more force that necessary. I reach up and massage the back of my head a bit, trying to get my headache to go away.

"You've got to stop him doing that. He's making us look like idiots." Donovan complains behind me

"If you can tell me _how_ he does it I'll stop him" I respond, giving her a look.

Donovan shuts up at that, obviously seeing that I was not in the mood for any of her trifling over the consulting detective.

"Thanks for trying to save the conference today anyway" I say, when we get to my office door, "It was much appreciated"

She nods "Yeah, but I wouldn't HAVE to if Sherlock Holmes didn't-"

"Oh for christ sakes" I mutter, turning around and closing the door behind me, leaving Donovan to do whatever it is she does

I throw my files onto my desk and sit down in my chair heavily, leaning back as I do so. I bring my hands up to massage my head again, making my oily hair even scruffier than it probably was. I grimace as I pull my hands away from my hair. I _really_ need to have a nice long soak in the tub. I place my feet up on the desk and lean my head back against my chair, closing my eyes. 'Just a little nap' I tell myself as my eyes fall closed…

* * *

 _ **John's perspective**_

After ordering the coffee (I prefer tea to be honest), we went back into the park and sat down on one of the benches along the footpath. We sat there in awkward silence for a bit. I took a sip of the coffee, felling the warm concoction slip down my throat.

"So, are you still at Barts then?" I ask Mike

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be"

I couldn't help a small smile on my face as I remember when we went to Barts, it was one of the best experiences in my life.

"God I hate them" he continues

I chuckle with him at that comment

"What about you? He questions, turning the tables "Just staying in town till you got yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension"

"Ah, but you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

I don't know what it was that made me so angry at that statement, and I couldn't help myself as the words slipped through my lips, "Yeah, I'm _not_ the John Watson…" Luckily I caught myself just in time. I almost slap myself for being so rude to a guy who obviously didn't mean to get on my nerves. I ball my fist up and press it into the inside of my leg to remind myself not to do it again.

Mike looks at me for a bit. "Couldn't Harry help?"

Hah! Yeah right. She spends all her money on alcohol. "Yeah, like that's going to happen"

"I don't know, get a flat share or something?"

I almost laugh when I hear that. The majority of people looking for flat shares are people in their early 20s, or just out of high school. Even if I knew anyone around my age, who would want a 'grumpy ex-soldier' living with them , who's basically useless because of my damned leg.

"Come one," I huff "Who'd want me for a flat mate?"

Mike starts chuckling at that. Why on earth would that be so funny?

"What?" I ask putting my thoughts into words

"You're the second person to say that to me today"

My curiosity peaks at that. "Who was the first?"

"Haha, you can meet him if you like" he offers

"Who is he though?"

"You find figure that out for yourself, come on, he works at Barts" he stands up gesturing for me to do the same.

I reluctantly stand and follow Mike to the road, putting our coffees in a bin on the way, where he hails a taxi. After we're seated and Mike has giving the address to the cabbie I start to ask questions again. I want to know who I'm sharing a flat with if the guy Mike has in mind even _wants_ to share a flat with me.

"So, how do you know him?"

"Well my friend Molly Hooper knew him and wouldn't shut up about him, saying that he was AMZING and all that rubbish. Anyway she said that I should meet him some day, and well, I wasn't expecting him to actually be what she had described, but I assure you he was all that and more"

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Oh, it'll make more sense when you meet him"

"Who's this Molly Hooper?"

"Oh, she lets some of my students look at the dead bodies in the morgue for assignments and experiments"

"Right…so, how does Molly know him?"

"Have you always been this insecure?" he jokes

I shut up at that. I don't remember the last time I 'went with the flow' as people put it. The army had drilled me into always having a plan and knowing the background knowledge before you went into action.

"Look, just come meet the guy ok? Trust me, you'll love him" he gives me a cheeky smile as we pull up to Barts.

Mike pays the cabbie as I step onto the pavement. I look up at my old school, taking it all in. There had definitely been some changes, but otherwise it looked exactly as it always had. Mike came up beside me.

"Come on then" he encourages, walking up the path towards the front doors.

I follow, wandering what exactly I'd gotten myself into this time.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hey guys! So as you have probably already deduced, I have retold the TV series 'Sherlock' from some of the main character perspectives so far. But my plan is to do it from ALL the major characters (Sherlock, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson etc) over the course of many chapters for this episode. What do you guys think? I was thinking that if this one went well I can do more episodes? Also, whose perspectives would you like? I am happy to do any, even if they are minor characters. Just tell me who and if there is a particular scene and I will try my best to get it done.

I'll try my best to update every fortnight, but I might update once a week depending on what I have on. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it!

-Shezza :3

P.S. What ships do you guys prefer/want in this fic? Can't continue writing until I know this vital info, so first person (or most voted) review will be the ship! ^_^


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